


Down The Rabbit Hole

by b26 (B26)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Canon - TV, Crack, Defensively Heterosexual John Watson, Friendship, Funny, Gen, Humor, John Watson is a Saint, Ridiculous, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B26/pseuds/b26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pure and utter crack. There is a Sherlock, a John, a rabbit and some other stuff. Is Cracklock a ship? Because it should be. This is based around the time of season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down The Rabbit Hole

Walking through the front door of 221B Baker Street was a bit like playing Russian roulette with your sanity on a daily basis. You never knew what you were going to get and, yes, there had been the occasional assassin or weapon wielding maniac to greet John when he came home after a day out. It was also a bit like being on The Price Is Right. You’d spin a wheel and you had no idea if you were getting something wonderful, rubbish or completely bonkers. This was definitely the latter.

John had grown accustomed to simply accepting whatever was there to greet him. There was no ‘normal’ in his life. Coming home to find a rabbit was nonetheless a strange sight. Stranger still was the sight of Sherlock kneeling on the floor with said bunny, hopping on all fours and wiggling his bum in the air as he pretended to be a bunny and made peculiar squeaking sounds. 

The rabbit was adorable: white fur, floppy ears and dark brown eyes. It was quite small but definitely a little bit domesticated. The same could not always be said about Sherlock, who was acting like he was on drugs. More than usual, that was. 

‘Don’t worry, I’m clean. And I haven’t drugged you again either.’  Sherlock read John’s mind. He stood up and collected the rabbit before speaking in an animated voice. ‘How was your day, John? We found a cucumber under the sofa and some lettuce. Yes we did, didn’t we, schnookums?’ 

‘Oh, okay. Good. Hi by the way. What’s it doing here? Has he called on the indispensable Sherlock Holmes to solve the great mystery of the missing rabbit food?’ John frowned. He was incredibly disconcerted by baby-talking Sherlock and the presence of the animal. So much for a quiet night. 

‘Not at all. Happy present day!’ Sherlock exclaimed, presenting to the bunny to John. There was a wide grin on the detective’s face as he held the creature at arm’s length.

‘You got me a  _rabbit?’_ John stared at the creature with a mixture of trepidation, bewilderment and amusement.

‘Your powers of observation are astounding.’ Sherlock declared with a slight drawl. John had this _infuriating_ habit of stating the obvious. Sherlock was convinced John could halve the time required for everything from solving crimes and playing Cluedo to foreplay if he could simply observe silently without feeling the need to give everything a running commentary. Besides, when it came to solving crimes, John never saw the important obvious things. He became blinder than a bat without echolocation.

‘Okay, let me rephrase that. Why did you get me a rabbit?’

‘Do I need a reason to get my friend a present?’ Sherlock seemed affronted as he put the rabbit down on his chair and turned to face John. 

‘Yes.’

‘Alright, you caught me. Happy Bir – no, that’s not for a few months ... anniversary as roommates …’ Sherlock wrinkled his nose, trying to think of the appropriate date. 

‘Not even close.’ John sighed. For someone with a mind palace exponentially bigger than the Taj Mahal, Sherlock was still not too savvy when it came to friendships. Or fake alibis. 

‘It’s to commemorate...’

‘... our first fight about rabbits, circa now?’ John quipped. 

‘We’ve had fights about bunnies before. Remember the time you lost a bet with Mycroft and I somehow ended up in a bunny onesie? I still don’t understand that.’ 

‘He bet me that I couldn’t get you to wear one, so I actually won that.’  

Sherlock scowled. ‘How about we call it me being spontaneous? Can’t I just get you things?’

‘You never just get me things.’ John said warily. Whenever Sherlock got John a present, it came with more strings attached than the house in _Up_ had needed for enough balloons to make a house fly. Questionable physics in animation side, John’s caution was rarely ill-founded. 

‘I bought you flowers last week and I didn’t get a word of thanks.’ Sherlock replied haughtily. 

Ah, yes. The flowers.  John had had a few far more choice words than thank you for those. They had not been any flowers. Oh no. Nothing with Sherlock was ever simple. As if one man buying another man flowers when their landlady shipped them harder than peanut butter and jelly wasn’t bad enough, Sherlock had bequeathed John with an ill-considered funeral wreath. The, ahem, _detective_ had then protested that ‘flowers are just flowers, what difference does it make if they’re in a circle or a vase?’ before ultimately confessing they’d been the cheapest thing in a florist he’d been secretly surveilling and he actually needed them to test the flowers for toxin residue. As potentially sweet as the gesture, well _hadn’t_ really been, it had been unnerving for John to see ‘John Hamish Watson: I suppose he will be missed by the several people who loved him. He was also a doctor.’ on a sash. In Comic bloody Sans of all fonts. And, oh god, Mrs Hudson. She had been delirious thinking Sherlock was proposing, then got hysterical thinking he’d faked his own death again, yet seemed rather calm when she saw John’s name on the wreath. Suffice to say it had not been a good day. The only person things had ended well for was Sherlock. 

‘Oh, _thank you_ for those.’ John rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

‘You didn’t even read the card before trying to throw it out. I wrote a beautiful, touching epitaph so that will all be taken care of in the event of your untimely passing. How is that not thoughtful?’

‘I’ll be _dead_. I won’t _need_ to think of an epitaph! You would but you’ve already thought of that so you’ve only done yourself a favour. Besides, an epitaph is _not_ a gift.’

‘Fine.’ Sherlock sniffed and shook his head. He looked at John. Heavy breathing, slightly narrowed eyes, left hand running through his hair: John was not a happy - for lack of a better word - bunny. Sherlock stayed quiet for a few seconds, trying to think of a rebuttal. 

‘Well?’ John pestered.

‘Aha! There was the cane I got you for your leg three months ago.’ Sherlock persisted. _Brilliant._ That had been a beautiful gift. Honestly, there was no pleasing John.

 ‘That was a pimp cane. An _actual_ pimp’s cane. That had been used as a weapon in seven brutal murders.’

‘I know. Fascinating, wasn’t it?’ Sherlock beamed, missing John’s irate tone. His eyes lit up the way they always did when the word murder cropped up in conversation.

‘Lestrade took it away to use as evidence. He asked if we’d been having fun in the bedroom. And you said yes. Not only that, but you said we’d been experimenting with it in the bedroom to see how it compared to my other canes and then started going on about firmness, bruising and girth. _Girth,_ Sherlock. ’

‘But we _had_ been experimenting in your bedroom to see if it was the same cane used to beat those girls to death, using your old ones to eliminate any doubt. I don’t see the issue.’ 

‘He meant experimenting with it _sexually_. He wasn’t on about the geographical location of the cane.’ John sighed in exasperation. For a super sleuth, Sherlock missed some fairly obvious stuff.

‘Well Gavin really needs to be more careful when wording questions. He’s nearly as useless as Anderson when it comes to articulation.’ 

_‘Greg_. His name is Greg. And how about you being more careful when wording answers? You pretty much blurted out to the entire team that we use canes in ways I don’t ever want to use canes. I can’t turn up to a crime scene with a cane, even if my leg is killing me, or I just get dirty laughs and winks all day or offers of sanitary wipes to clean the thing.’

_Oh_. Sherlock nodded in sudden understanding. Well that certainly explained Anderson’s sniggering. And a few snide comments Sherlock had put down to dim-wittedness. Maybe Anderson had been trying to make a joke. It was hard to tell with Anderson. The fool. His dislike of Sherlock had reached new heights lately after he’d accused Sherlock of not having a sense of humour. Sherlock had responded by pointing and laughing at Anderson’s joke shop nose to prove he did indeed have a sense of humour, only to learn Anderson’s nose was in fact broken thanks to a brutal football injury. In fairness Sherlock should have deduced it sooner from the mud on Anderson’s shoes, the slight limp and the nasal tone to his voice, but Anderson was so _boring_ he wasn’t worth deducing, or even listening to most of the time. Sherlock had far better things to do than figure out which ready meal had been in the reduced section in Asda the night before based on the remnants on Anderson’s attire. That observation hadn’t pleased Anderson either, so Sherlock didn’t comprehend what the baboon actually wanted. He complained whether Sherlock paid attention or not.

‘Still, you could have just accepted the cane and used it.’ 

‘They think we’re a bloody couple. We have a website and a highly popular twitter account.’

‘A bit of free publicity can’t hurt, can it?’ 

‘Yes! I wish I still had that cane so I could tell you where the hell to shove it. I’m sick of having to dust every gift from you for fingerprints.’  John screeched, his voice raised in frustration.

‘Don’t shout in front of little Liza Minnelli.’

‘You named it Liza?’ John stared blankly from Sherlock to the rabbit, conversation turning back to the matter at hand. 

‘Yes.’ 

John simply stared at Sherlock. He waited. Nope. It still didn’t make any sense. ‘ _Why?’_  

‘Because it’s Liza with Z not Liza with an S. Don’t you know anything?’ Sherlock answered dryly, his words devoid of irony and patience. 

‘Apparently not.’

Sherlock made a snort of agreement.

‘Point is, there’s a rabbit. She belongs to you. Deal with her.’ 

John glanced over at seat. The rabbit hadn’t moved at all. It definitely seemed well-trained, which eliminated the possibilities of wild rabbit adoption for experimental purposes and any form of Sherlock testing drugs on rabbits. Well, so far. 

‘Come here, you little cutie.’ John’s softer side was starting to win over. It was a particularly adorable rabbit, after all. ‘Let’s see if Daddy can’t find a better name for you. Let’s get you away from that sociopath, shall we?’ He cooed at the little rabbit, before working his way over to Sherlock’s chair and picking it up.

Liza certainly seemed nice enough. Maybe it was just a gesture? Maybe this was the only way Sherlock knew to show his appreciation. If so, they’d have to have a serious talk before he started receiving bigger livestock. Next year there could well be a gift to mark the anniversary of John’s first pet (Sherlock could be erratic like that, forgetting birthday but remembering and celebrating obscure dates). One year anniversaries were meant to be paper, not poultry. 

‘Is Liza set in stone or can we maybe give her a different name?’ John asked, nuzzling the little bunny.

‘What? Yes. Of course it is. It’s on her nametag. Get her a leash and take her for a walk or some food or something.’

‘What? A leash? She’s not a dog. You don’t just take rabbits for out for walks around central London. Are we even keeping her? Does she need a cage? Have you thought this through at all?’ John sighed. He had a sinking feeling this was another scenario where he was going to be left to pick up all the pieces. ‘Sherlock?’

He turned around to see the door wide open and no sign of Sherlock.

Bloody typical. Sherlock had seized the opportunity to disappear as soon as John’s back was turned, leaving all of the responsibility and livestock with him. This was just like him. It was Sherlock’s infuriating way of ending arguments he couldn’t be bothered fighting. He’d walk off and abandon John at the drop of a hat leaving utter chaos behind him. Time for Watson to step in, save the day and get none of the credit. As ever.  


~*~  


An hour into rabbit-sitting, John was fairly confident that his skills were second to absolutely everything he’d ever attempted his entire life. Including clog dancing and not getting shot in Afghanistan - and he’d failed at that, just not fatally. T _hat’s_ how badly he was failing at taking care of an animal and stopping it from destroying his home. No wonder Sherlock had vanished. He felt slightly less insane talking to an animal than he did talking to himself but that was a cold comfort. The rabbit was crashing into every obstacle in sight, chewing things John would have deemed to be not chewable, and making more of a mess than Sherlock ever had. Ever. Bullets in the wall seemed like the least of Baker Street’s problems now.

Sherlock wasn’t answering any of his texts or calls. The sleuth’s mind had probably wandered to the next case. John may not hear from him for days. He was truly on his own.

It finally occurred to the doctor, after the fifth chewed up pillow, that the poor thing might be hungry. Yes, that _had_ to be it. Five years of medical school had not been for nothing. He doubted Sherlock had fed it and inspection of the fridge confirmed this. The only thing in it was a jar of - hopefully not human - eyeballs.

John was a bit peckish too, so he decided fresh air might be a good idea. He deliberated leaving the bunny but instead fashioned a makeshift leash from belts and cushion padding. It worked well. Well enough, at least.

He wouldn’t mind something similar to keep tabs on Sherlock at times, preferably with the option to strangle the detective when he became too irksome. Then again, John remembered with a shudder, Anderson had circulated some damnable yet believable rumours about Sherlock already being in possession of several leashes. And rather rampant rabbits. What Anderson lacked in intelligence, he made up for in bitchiness, creativity and photoshop skills and a worryingly specific interest in dungeon porn. Arsehole. 

~*~

 

It turned out taking a rabbit for a walk around central London was even more preposterous than he had first anticipated. Rabbits were nothing like dogs and he received more peculiar looks and double takes than he had when he’d walked around in high heels and fishnet tights and lacy underwear. (It was best not to ask, unless you wanted an earful about bloody Sherlock). Thankfully he received less heckling and fewer wolf whistles (Seriously, it was best not to ask) than he had in the aforementioned unmentionables. 

He managed to get into a ridiculous argument with a London Underground employee who tried to make him buy a day ticket for his furry companion, which had resulted in John storming out of the tube station with the rabbit on his head to prove a point that already seemed slightly vague to the doctor. 

Of course, the cherry on top of the afternoon was running into Mrs Hudson as he was being ambushed by a gay couple who thought Liza was the cutest thing ever. 

Mrs Hudson cooed at the sight of Liza after moseying on over, interrupting and doing her best to set John and Sherlock on a double date with the poor, unsuspecting strangers. Some polite small talk was made before she and John launched into their almost traditional Avenue-Q-esque rendition of Mrs Hudson’s ‘if you were (and you are) gay’, only to be met by John’s ever defiant ‘I am not gay.’ It was uncomfortable to say the least. After a while, the couple didn’t even bother making an excuse - they just scarpered and half legged it down the street. 

‘Is it a gay thing, love? Sherlock told me about it this morning.’ Mrs Hudson asked, nodding at the animal.

‘No, Mrs Hudson, it’s not a gay thing.’ John sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a Sherlock thing.’

‘What’s the little thing's name?’ 

Bugger. John hadn’t thought that far ahead. ‘Liza Minnelli.’ 

John had tried to mutter it, but it was no use. Mrs Hudson’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. 

‘Well that’s a nice, strong, heterosexual name for two men to give a pet.’ She declared with far too much mirth in her voice. 

‘Not my decision.’

‘You expect me to believe a strapping lad like Sherlock picked the name? Ooh you do make me laugh.’ 

John fought the _very_ strong urge to shout out _damn that Sherlock_ and kept quiet. He knew from experience that it wouldn’t help matters. He could not cope with another session from Agony Aunt Martha so he played along. 

‘You know me too well, girlfriend.’ He waved his hand in an overly camp manner and forced a high pitched laugh.

To his surprise, Mrs Hudson giggled like a schoolgirl and hit him playfully.

‘What are you two like?’ She asked.

‘You know we’re still not a couple. I’m not gay and even if I _were_ gay, do you honestly think Sherlock would capable of feeling anything? He barely knows what friendship is.’

‘He turned you down, didn’t it?’ Mrs Hudson sighed, but remained undeterred in her lifelong quest to find a man for John. ‘Well don’t worry. You know my friend down the road who has married ones living in one of her flats?

Well they’re not married anymore, so I’ll get her to give your number to both of them and you can take your pick. Or have both of them. No one would judge you. We’re all very opened minded now.’ 

‘Mrs Hudson.’ John sighed.

‘What?’

‘ _Mrs Hudson_.’ He repeated using _the tone._ Honestly. Sometimes it felt like he bickered with her more than he did with Sherlock. ‘We’ve talked about this.’

‘Alright, I’ll stop meddling.’ She replied. John would have been slightly convinced she was telling the truth were it not for the wink and nudge she gave him. ‘Gary would be perfect for you.’ 

John tuned out the rest. Mrs Hudson gave a thorough description of both of her friend’s now single boarders then proved herself to be useful by dragging John to a pet shop to pick up all the necessary equipment. The My First Rabbit kid from Pets At Home complete with colouring book wasn’t that useful, but the thought was there and, more importantly, so was a cage. He ended up cooking dinner for her to say thanks as she helped him get all set up. Maybe this having a pet thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.

 ‘Do you think maybe he got you the rabbit because it can give you all the affection he’s just not capable of?’ Mrs Hudson mused aloud before deciding to call it a night and leave John alone.

That was something he admired about Mrs Hudson. For all that she could wind him up in jest (he hoped) about his relationship with Sherlock, she had a way of seeing things he and Sherlock just couldn’t.

Exhausted, John decided to call it a night too. As he got ready for bed and set the cage up in his bedroom, his mind stuck on Mrs Hudson’s parting words. It was a fair point. Sherlock, for all his social discrepancies, did try. He had recently managed to refer to John as a friend. An actual friend. Maybe this was his way of showing it. Maybe there was some tribe where rabbits were a symbol of friendship and this was Sherlock’s clumsy way of showing that he did care? Maybe the pet was meant to keep John company when Sherlock disappeared with no warning or explanation, or a thank you for all of John’s loyalty. Stranger things had happened. 

Still, as he got into bed and Liza hopped onto the foot of it, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something. Surely there was some form of ulterior motive for the rabbit’s sudden presence in his life privy only to Sherlock and, well, probably a skeleton by now. 

The second he turned the lights off, it clicked like a light bulb. Literally. Talk about a night light with a difference. There it was at the foot of his bed: a hopping, living, glow in the dark, obviously stolen from the lab at Baskerville rabbit. It was bright. Brighter than the sun. 

‘Sherlock!’ John groaned. Of course there was a catch. There always was. Every sodding time. 

His phone buzzed. It was a text from Sherlock either a few seconds too late or perfectly timed, depending upon how much sarcasm was intended. Knowing Sherlock, it was the latter. 

<<If convenient, sleep with the light on tonight. If inconvenient, sleep with the light on anyway. SH.>>

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is the first piece I've written for this fandom, so I hope you enjoy it. I don't really have an explanation for this story. It just sort of happened.


End file.
